


the fear splits in two like moses

by s0dafucker



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemies with benefits?, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Friends With Benefits, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Rough Oral Sex, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Under-negotiated Kink, author-typical big submissive guy, can u believe im writing straight sex. repo what have u done to me, canon-typical drugs, mutual irritants with benefits, or overtones?, that thing abt amber changing her name. yeah. thats trans coded fuck u, yeah theyre t4t u better fucking believe it baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: i can make you famous i can make you something don't go back to oklahoma what's in oklahoma?don't you know this is not for public consumption you know nothing this is nothingyou’re performing addiction or you’re addicted to performance or something like that, something about your hands cupping her ass through her dress, something about her tits spilling out of her sweetheart neckline like some kind of perverse prom gown. she bites down and it makes your knees buckle, almost, heat-rush, head-rush, your stomach turning, hot and sickening.her teeth scrape your jugular like she’s thinking of tearing it out and the thought isn’t altogether unpleasant. maybe that’s sick. she mutters, ‘this is a down payment,’ against your thrumming heartbeat, clock-work, and you swallow on your scraped throat and nod.
Relationships: GraveRobber/Amber Sweet
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	the fear splits in two like moses

**Author's Note:**

> title/summary from hollywood by car seat headrest
> 
> cw for consensual but not negotiated impact play + a lot of nasty name calling thats pretty par for the course for these guys

you think- not for the first time- you'd like to be beneath those heels. they echo on the pavement, whip-crack, and you light a cigarette, casual as can be, making sure to flash her that crooked smile the ladies like so much. she isn't charmed. 

you let her take her wallet out from whatever animal-print monstrosity she's wearing tonight, nursing your smoke, watching her count the bills, before you finally say, 'i don't have any,' casual-as-you-can, eyes fixed somewhere past her. 

(she snatches the cigarette from your mouth and glares, eyes like fire, like ice- you remember they were red, once, when it was in style, and you had liked the way they cut through you, like pinning a butterfly.)

'the fuck are you talking about.' not-a-question. spat from her perfect lips like poison. (no. not perfect. you look closer and they're swollen, just a little, like she's just gotten fillers, like she's been kissing someone- she takes one last drag on your cigarette and tosses it.)

you return her scowl, looking meaningfully down at your money, wasted, and she smiles sweetly and grinds the inch-or-so of unsmoked tobacco under her heel. you're determined to not find it attractive.

'i'm turning in for the night,' you say. 'i didn't think i'd have any customers at this hour.'

(a half truth.)

she shoves you and you let her. 

she isn't nearly strong enough to pin you, not really, but you've never been able to resist a good high, never been able to keep away from something that drags you under. she glowers up at you and her nails dig into your shoulder, sharp and biting, and your face goes hot in the cold night. 

'cunt,' she mutters, and her other hand reaches into your hair-

'bitch,' you toss back, but it's weak and she knows it; she grins, and it's sharp, shark-teeth, like you've started bleeding into her water. she tugs at a fistful of your hair and takes your face in her hands and pulls you down, meets your mouth with enthusiasm and the slick anger you've learned to expect from her- 

you know when to compromise and soften, how to keep her from knocking your teeth together, how to keep up-

_ keep up _ is all you can do, sometimes, when amber decides you're the only thing she can make her frustration known to-

('don't you have a diary?' you'd asked, once, dazed and stupid with her fingers inside you, with her teeth sunk in your neck-

'shut the fuck up,' she'd said, all whispers and hot breath on top of your spit-wet skin, you shivering with anything but cold-)

you're content to play punching bag, really, letting her worry your lip between her too-sharp teeth until you bleed, like an overripe fruit going soft with rot, sickly-sweet and wet and wrong.

you have an idea what might be bothering her, in an abstract sort of way, a tabloid sense of  _ knowing  _ that tangles oddly with the too-close here-and-now; her father’s been all over the news running his mouth about the zydrate market, dropping loaded phrases about  _ addiction  _ and  _ company policy  _ that mean nothing to you but are likely to blame for the venom-hot press of her mouth to yours, insistent. the hand in your hair twists, tugs sharply, pulls a sound from your throat, unbidden- 

she grins against you and it tastes like victory, it tastes like your cigarette brand and her perfume, as she tucks her whole little self into you, small and pointed under your hands. her tits are pressing against your chest- you shot her z, the day she got them, with her eyes still natural (what color were they? you remember- you should remember- you were sixteen and she was fifteen and her eyes were a color that made sense, one that came pre-set, pre-made, but god-help-you- you’ve got no fucking clue- you know the shape of them better than your own, though, doesn’t that count) her eyes still natural when they stared at you, at the gun, at you, her head tilted to bare the curve of her neck, something unpleasantly  _ slaughterhouse  _ about it, something  _ morgue  _ and  _ graveyard  _ and you shouldn’t think about it, not with her tits pressing into you like that, warm, living-warm, her heart pounding in rythmn with yours. 

she’s so small. she likes it. thinks it makes her look girlish, pretty, likes to stand next to her tallest brother at publicity things, likes to be photographed between luigi and her father-

her mouth on your neck, lipstick over a spot that’s still raw with injection, still stings faintly when her tongue traces it, blood-raw with (your knees on concrete, smile like it’s all a joke because  _ people are watching,  _ the girl with the red hair tipping your head back, muscles taunt to run because  _ someone could be watching,  _ whisper of ‘what a good whore,’ against your ear before she pulls the trigger and everything goes pleasantly numb) an earlier performance. you’re performing addiction or you’re addicted to performance or something like that, something about your hands cupping her ass through her dress, something about her tits spilling out of her sweetheart neckline like some kind of perverse prom gown. she bites down and it makes your knees buckle, almost, heat-rush, head-rush, your stomach turning, hot and sickening. 

her teeth scrape your jugular like she’s thinking of tearing it out and the thought isn’t altogether unpleasant. maybe that’s sick. she mutters, ‘this is a down payment,’ against your thrumming heartbeat, clock-work, and you swallow on your scraped throat and nod. 

‘on your knees,’ she says, and it’s cutting, it’s whisper-ragged and vicious. 

(you know better than to waste her time, you drop quick and quiet and neat, and it could be wishful thinking but you swear the way her nails cut into your scalp feels like  _ grateful,  _ feels like  _ good,  _ and when she pulls, makes you look at her, there’s something sweet and gauzy and far-away chipping away at your restlessness.)

she could snap your neck like this and she wants you to know it, everywhere with the touch of her hands, with the drag of her nails over your jaw- she presses in, pinprick points of pain, and you shut your eyes, you can’t look at her when she flays you open like that,  _ i-know-you  _ in her gaze like triumph, like gloating, as she gives you that pseudo-scalpel erotica, scratches across your cheek that you know will last well into tomorrow, red and angry for anyone to see. 

she likes it. she likes to think she can show you off, claim you- she’d tattoo  _ property of amber sweet  _ across your chest if anyone would let her near a needle. it would be thematically appropriate, you think. maybe doing each other’s surgery would be more fitting. 

you remember shooting her z for her first, when she was small and shaking and so very fucking bold, so very alone and still she carried herself like she was someone beautiful and important- 

she was getting the bones in her face re-shaped, molded into something lovelier, and you didn’t think anything of it when she rolled up her sleeves and told you she’d never injected anything before, eyes eyes eyes staring somewhere that was not-you, but now you ache wonderfully at the idea of reaching beneath her skin and touching her skull with your own clumsy hands. tracing her eye-sockets. 

both her hands under your chin, soft and pampered and sharp and deadly, all of her sweet with perfume, the scent of blood and sex and sweat almost drowned. almost. she scowls beautifully down to you and tilts your head back and hikes her tiny dress up around her hips. 

(her cunt cost a million-fucking-dollars, you wish you were joking but one night you tossed around transition stories and told her about the scrounged-up wads of bills that lived in your mattress and under layers of your clothes and paid for your flat chest - she tossed her head back and  _ laughed  _ and held you in place under the slick reminder of her wealth. it’s about the principle of the thing, she told you- she’s rotti largo’s only daughter and she’ll be damned if anyone tells her she isn’t. she came three times and put a cramp in your jaw and told you she wouldn’t hesitate to flash someone on live goddamn tv.)

(that, you could understand.)

she’s cruel and it sends sparks under your skin, pulls you in flush with her silk panties and curls her fingers into your scalp when you taste her- no blissful sighing and sweet nothings; either you’re getting her off and she's keeping you in line or you’re wasting her time and she’ll  _ let you know.  _ the thought makes you shiver, a little, and she must feel it, her thighs hot around you and her hands sunk deep into your hair-

‘you whore,’ she mutters, and you imagine she must be sneering. 

her heartbeat is next to your ear, femoral artery like a kick-drum click-track thumping hummingbird-quick through her skin into yours. the esteemed heiress to geneco and her designer heart pumping just as fast and snap-sharp as your own; there’s a joke there, isn’t there. fuck if you know. 

(once, when you were high together, in an attic above some abandoned storefront that served as your place for a while, sitting on your paper-thin mattress and swapping bites that were more like kisses and bruises on wrists and throats; once when you were high together she looked at you with her eyes- white, she had them white and angelic and horrifying- out-of-focus and smiling, something about her catlike and wind-swept, and said she wanted to repay a favor. she didn’t need help filling the needle and she only needed a moment’s assistance to find the spot where you inject and you thought there was a joke to be told in the quickness of both of your hands but before you could voice it she was looking at you with those white eyes, sun-bleached, like bone, like ash, and she did your testosterone for that week.)

she’s bored _ ,  _ you can tell in the restless way she claws up the back of your neck, hot and stinging, and so when she tugs your head back you’re expecting it; she gets one of her heels on your shoulder and pushes, sends you sprawling onto the pavement. your stomach flips. it’s  _ good,  _ to be wrong-footed like this, and you grin up at her, that winning smile that gets most girls turning out their pockets for you. it only makes her slap you, bent over at an angle that has to be lewd from any other vantage point, in that dress- ‘don’t get cocky,’ she says, ‘bitch.’

she loves you cocky, though, doesn’t she? it only makes her play rougher, pull out the nastier tricks; she likes you bruised and she likes you to earn it, and you’re perfectly happy to oblige. you prop yourself up on your elbows- stings a bit, joint-to-concrete, but it’s barely anything- and spread your legs, trying for porno-flirty and probably ending up a little ridiculous, all six-feet of you. she gives you approval anyway, arousal, that wonderful wicked flash of her eyes. she’s scowling still, her face plastic-stiff and stern, but you know her eyes. you know when she’s pleased. 

she straddles you, still with her dress hiked up too-high, and if you make a coy remark about her dirtying everything she’s wearing, worth more than the stash of z in your second-best coat- it doesn’t matter ‘cause she slaps it right out of your mouth, a backhand that stings nicely, a zap of sharp pain. she grinds down on your cock, just the sweetest little swivel of her hips, and you groan, tilt your head back to stare at where the stars should be. if you look at her now you’re liable to come in your jeans and, well- 

she’d never let that go. you’d be hearing jabs about it until you died. 

her nails, god, her nails go trailing dangerously down your chest, working at your buttons, muttering about how it isn’t fair she’s got to do all this  _ work,  _ don’t you know she wears these tiny skirts for a reason-

‘would you like me in a skirt?’ you ask, warm and joking, and she pinches at some newly-revealed skin around your collarbones and  _ twists,  _ fucking bitch, and informs you she doesn’t like you in anything, really. 

(and you laugh, because it’s a stupid lie, and she drags her nails over your ribcage, warning, and- oh, oh,  _ that’s  _ something. fuck. you squirm, lightning over your frayed nerves, and her lipstick-dark smile goes kind of soft where it was crowbar-pointed.  _ nonono  _ you gasp, giddy and frantic, and you hope it’s the kind of begging she  _ believes  _ and not the kind that eggs her on.)

(it works the way she wants it to, being a cunt and reminding you that no, you didn’t ever grow out of being ticklish- shuts you up so she can go back to stripping away your layers- but you think if she ever gives you the chance you’ll tell her you pay attention to how she looks at you.)

it’s cold out, the air heavy with smoke and pollution and a general chill, a vague sense of not-supposed-to-be-here that comes with the city at night, like the air itself is trying to scare you back inside- it gives you goosebumps, but she came all the way here in that dress, so you can grin and bear it, probably. she kisses you - 

that’s unexpected, but you’re certainly not complaining, and you think she might be smiling, sometime in the in-between where you can’t see her. you can’t touch her, not really, not without knocking your back flat against the pavement, and you know from experience it’ll hurt and it’ll probably chip both your fucking teeth; so you stay still, let her pull your hair and bite your lips and have her way. you like it that way, when she pins you and cuts you open, when she peels everything away, when you’re no longer a ringmaster or a street magician, when the crowd is gone and she’s splitting you apart with all the efficiency of a surgeon. she holds your face in her hands, for a moment, wearing that beautiful shark’s-grin, and says, saccharine, venus-flytrap, ‘d’you want to come tonight, dear?’

you  _ do,  _ thanks for asking, and you tell her as much; she puts a hand on your chest and pushes down and decides for you that you’re doing it in the street tonight. it hurts your back about as much as you thought it would. you find you don’t really mind. 

she leans in to kiss you again, slips one of her legs in between yours to finally ( _ finally _ ) press some friction to your cock, and she coos, ‘what a whore,’ when you arch up into it, claws sinking into your sternum with new vigor. 

you reach up for her, to hold her hips or waist or  _ something _ , and she catches your wrist and sucks two of your fingers into her mouth, letting you rock up into her, all of her hot and wet and encompassing- ‘don’t be selfish, cunt,’ she growls, and she guides your hand between her legs. 

you fumble for a second, horny-clumsy, pushing aside her barely-there panties and finding her slick and hot- she mutters, ‘fucking love your hands,’ and grinds down on your fingers, her hips and yours in a messy rythmn- she’s anything but quiet or gentle and you’re just along for the ride, hard and aching and letting her wear you out. 

‘please-’ you don’t realize you’re begging until your rough whisper turns loud enough to echo down the alley, and she laughs, cruel and jagged, tossing her head back- and she stills where she’s pressing into your cock, to watch you squirm. 

‘ _ bitch _ ,’ you hiss, and her lips twist into a brutal sort of smile; you remember her telling you she wanted to be a pop star, when she was a child, and you think for everything blood-bitter about that smile you could look at it for days on end, stare at her like she’s the only thing in the world. 

‘you’re fucking  _ insufferable _ ,’ you tell her. 

‘ask nicely,’ she says, and you shut your eyes-

‘c’mon, please-’

‘what was that?’

‘fucking _ whore- _ ’

she slaps you for that one, which you probably deserve-

‘touch me, please, fuck,’ and her fingers find your zipper, grope at the front of your jeans, pause expectantly-

‘ _ please,  _ i’ll do anything-’

‘my next hit’s free,’ she says, poison-sweet and hardly bothered, and you’re nodding, desperate, praying to whatever god there might be that she forgets all about this in a day or two; praying first and foremost she makes good on her end, that the burning humiliation pays off, that she’ll just stop fucking around and  _ fuck you-  _

‘pervert,’ she mutters, ‘all wet ‘cause i made you beg,’ and yeah, yeah she’s right but she knows it ‘cause she’s finally getting her pretty fingers down your pants, thank fucking  _ god- _

('don't say-' and you'd stumbled over the words, trying to go fast and to-the-point, like ripping off a bandage, like pulling a tooth- 'i'm not a woman,' you'd said, and you had seen something fierce and dark in her eyes, and she had nodded. 

( _ if someone called her cunt a cock, even when it more resembled one, _ she told you, hands 'round your neck,  _ she'd have slit their throat. _ so she nodded.)

'you aren't a woman,' she agreed, and she asked if you'd let her tease you for soaking her fingers, and you'd gone red and nodded and that was that.)

she kisses you, small mercy- she’s  _ kissing  _ a lot tonight, greedy and sharp, and you won’t complain but you think- maybe- when she’s calmer- higher- when you’re both less busy- you should talk to her about her father or her brothers or the company, whatever’s got her so determined to swap spit with your street urchin ass. 

usually- 

she pulls back and watches your face while she rubs your cock, sneers down at you all hot breath and delicate fingers, and usually she doesn’t kiss ‘cause you both wear different shades of lipstick-

she licks up your cheek, and it stings where it catches the places she’s scratched you, and she presses her lips wet and waxy next to your ear, where you can hear her in stereo-

_ don’t fucking stop, slut,  _ she hisses, and she fucks down on your fingers, pretty and obscene-

and you’re close, and she’s vicious, and you love it, you whine and she moans appreciatively, you whine and she bites down below your jaw, too-hard, like she’s going to draw blood, and she pulls off of you to sit back on her heels and catch her breath, looking fucked-out and smug. 

‘you gonna come, whore?’

and you nod, and it makes her hum, condescending, and it’s- 

it’s  _ good-  _

‘i don’t have all night,’ and she’s right, and it sends you into a tailspin, and when you come, biting your lip so you don’t scream, she coos like you’ve done something mildly entertaining. 

(she doesn’t stop touching until it’s borderline-painful, grins with her lipstick smudged and her eyes wicked and lets you reach up and grab her wrist yourself, gasping, ‘no- no, please-’ 

(and part of you, masochistic and wanting, wishes she’d continue-)

but she takes pity and instead puts her slick fingers in your mouth expectantly, watches with a warm, dark sort of pride when you do as she wants.)

‘you’re a real sick bitch,’ you mutter, still with your heart pounding in your chest, with her fingers spit-wet and holding your chin, but you know she can tell it’s a compliment. 

‘where are you staying these days, graverobber?’

(you like the way she says it. fond.) 

you tilt your head down the street, towards the place you’re sharing with a few of the working girls, and you wonder if she’s gonna offer to walk you home, invite herself over for the night, if she just wants to know where to find you-

‘you comin’ up?’

‘you wish.’

she stands, and it’s a view, her tall heels and short skirt, and you leer ‘cause she’ll think it’s funny but also ‘cause she’s really beautiful, when she’s girlish and lethal- she catches you staring, flashes you a smile and rests one of her heels on your sternum, murmurs, ‘like what you see?’ and if you weren’t so spent you’d probably get it up again for the resistance on your chest when you laugh. 

(when she’s fixing her dress and shrugging back into her coat she looks at you, while you button your shirt back up, and you sit up and she leans over and she cards her fingers through your hair, she lets you hold her cheek in your hand, and you think maybe she’ll kiss you but she just looks, drinks you in and lets you see her.)

you think maybe you’ll tell her you’ve got a stash stored away, that she can cash in that free hit upstairs at your place, but it feels too much like exposing your jugular, so you ask if she wants a cigarette for the road and you put the right amount of sarcasm in your voice when you bid her goodnight. 

**Author's Note:**

> idk man narratives abt surgery and personal identity always end up feeling trans 2 me. so theyre trans
> 
> ive watched repo 3 times in the last week and. amber sweet please marry me


End file.
